Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose


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John Moynes

Unfortunately, a local dean insulted the writer at the funeral for giving the priesthood up, and V. Mykolaitis—Putinas vowed to himself to never return to Lithuania. He kept his promise.

The Native Homestead-Museum of Vincas Mykolaitis-Putinas

She can tell about the poet's childhood, show letters addressed to his sister Magdalena who also wrote poems and who, out of all family members, knew her brother's worried heart the best. Exhibits related to her life were delivered to the homestead from Australian immigration officials. The entire restored exhibition looks as if the poet had returned home.


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Mobili aplikacija Travel around Kaunas Lagoon with a personal audio guide! The most convenient way to travel to the museum is by car.

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Let the poet lift a hammer: the prophetic poetry of Fred Voss

You have successfully subscribed to the newsletter. The clothes and skirts, out to dry, are full of youth Coaxed as much as nourished by the sun In the shade of the locust tree downstairs there always stands a boy Looking lost, like Jia Baoyu or Zhang Junrui The window, with a wind bell hanging, is upheld by the pious eye Like the pagoda in the sacred revolutionary place The last stop to love, like An outpost position. Like debts, there is a heap of pen-notes to make on the desk That darkens the good days with shadows Desk holes stuffed with lipstick bought with meal savings Pittance of tax paid to beauty Print bed sheets spread with large acres of fresh flowers In which serendipity hides, like bees The stockings, over the bed rails, are lazy, ostentatiously coquettish A dress with sad colours is in abnormal menstruation A cloth doll is more stunning than her owner The little speckles on its face have an antique feel A diary, secretively, is harbouring amorous thoughts underneath the pillow A red plum branch sticking out of its hardcover And there is an envelope, just sealed, that looks as solemn As a carefully furnished room.

Like those who love beauty more than landscape They love chocolate more than shape Whenever they read they crack spicy melon seeds Faster and more accurate than their reading And they are ready to crack open their bodies The way they crack the seeds When they have too many instant noodles they smell of soap Their shelf-life, like love, is no longer than six months And the wildest love is no more than Suffering migraines whose side-products are Poetry and prose, of the whimpering and whinging kind.

When time, as chewy as chewing gum, is not consumed Something else must happen, something else must be extracted From the rose that is youth In the most critical moment It would be best to fall ill, as ill as Xi Shi For love, like revolution in nature Wins where the linkage is at its weakest Bodywise and heartwise.

Audio guide

Here, everyone plays the leading role herself In the film that is life And treats the attentions of a boy as the Oscar God has awarded her. Life, like this nunnery Has days that are no different from one another It ends even before it is lived The flowers outside open and fall, and fall and open The trees behind the house green and yellow, and yellow and green Even a small grass flashes her fashion But I, the colour of blue brick and grey tile Deteriorate and go moldy because of the long imprisonment of the aroma in ………….. I live but I have parted company with life My character more desolate than the embroidered cliff My body more serious than the dead branches My expression no better than a slate of bluestone, where no moss gathers And, in the hollow of my arms that reflects the fields One feels the non-existence of air.


  • Poems and images: Nat Hall – Scottish Centre for Geopoetics.
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However, a jug, sometimes empty and sometimes full, somehow shows A face many years ago Its smile, framed with fire, like a secret code that erases its traces from the ………….. Look, the yeast of dream needs little To swell the heart An idea, like an incandescent bulb, rushes from quietude To quietude, like screaming rats, an ominous sound bouncing back from the …………..


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  4. How I admire the bunch of plum flowers by the window, born in the ………….. People were busy making a coffin Death was fresh With a clear fragrance of wood chips and shavings My grandfather, just dead, lay inside the house He, I believe, must have heard The sawing of the wood and the hammering of the nails outside.

    At the same time when I felt That there was a large white flower opening, quietly, in the air. The sunlight everywhere, seemingly generous enough I was walking in the courtyard I, was, still, alive, My viscera intact Desiring to seek pleasure, for love alone.

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    The makers of the coffin, I was hoping, should reduce the noise to a minimum As I did not want the person inside the house to hear this Unlucky noise He might have got upset Perhaps he was only assuming that he was taking a nap And would wake up in a little while When he would push the window open and raise his head Towards the sky in order to observe the direction of the wind.

    She has published a number of poetry collections, such as feng shenglai jiu meiyou jia Wind is Born Homeless , xin shi yijia fengche Heart is a Windmill and wode zixu zhi zhen wuyou zhi xiang My Non-existent Home Town. She has also published 5 novels, including xingfu shi you de There was Happiness and xiawu dudianzhong Five in the Afternoon. She now teaches at Jinan University, China.

    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose
    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose
    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose
    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose
    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose
    Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose Wood Shavings: Poems and Prose

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